


A Hurricane Blue

by excelgesis



Category: Stray Kids (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Roommates/Housemates, Begging, Character Study, Friends to Lovers, Hand Jobs, Light Angst, M/M, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-14
Updated: 2020-07-14
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:34:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25256254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/excelgesis/pseuds/excelgesis
Summary: It’s the way blue ink stains the palms of Jisung’s hands and the way shadows pool underneath his eyes.It’s the way Minho is late for work four days in a row because he stays up late with bated breath just to hear Jisung’s soft voice filter through the bedroom wall.It’s the way Jisung stares, too, through eyes heavy with fatigue, and Minho wonders if he ever really sleeps at all.It’s the way Jisung slowly becomes a little less hurricane, and a little more human.
Relationships: Han Jisung | Han/Lee Minho | Lee Know
Comments: 68
Kudos: 625
Collections: Minsung, Nyxxstay's Recommendations





	A Hurricane Blue

**Author's Note:**

> "What I hear most clearly  
> within that thunder now  
> is its grief--a moan, a long  
> lament echoing, an ache.  
> And the rain? Raucous enough,  
> pounding, but oddly  
> musical, and, well,  
> eager to entertain, solicitous." 
> 
> \--Scott Cairns, "First Storm and Thereafter"

Minho is exhausted, weary down to the marrow of his bones in a way he can’t explain. He’s tried a million times, flipping through a veritable rolodex of reasons in his head, but he lands on the same few every time:

  1. Maybe it’s his job, a soul-sucking administrative thing that has no relation to the university degree gathering dust in the corner of his closet.
  2. Maybe it’s his apartment—smack in the middle of Gangneung even though he’s not fond of the ocean. There’s plenty of sunlight, sure, and it’s half the price of what Seoul would be, but the floorboards creak and it’s painfully small and the sharp salt from the sea air never goes away no matter how often he cleans.
  3. Maybe it’s Han Jisung—



The rolodex usually stops there because he prefers not to go that far.

Han Jisung, a friend of a friend of a friend who only moved in because Minho got an eviction notice on his door for the third month in a row and he was _desperate._ Han Jisung, who he had only known for four months—five months?—and who was his opposite only in the ways that mattered. Where Minho was quiet contemplation and early nights in, Jisung was raucous complaining and ramyeon in the kitchen at 3 am. Jisung was a presence, a _force,_ a hurricane caught in the hands of the gods and wrangled into the shape of a human. Minho wondered, in the beginning, how so much emotion could be contained inside a body so small.

_He makes music,_ Hyunjin had said all those months ago. _Mixtapes on Soundcloud and stuff._

And that made sense, Minho thought, channeling the hurricane into a syncopated rhythm the same way Minho used to wear down the soles of his shoes in the university dance studio.

But there’s more to Han Jisung, buried deep, right in the eye of the storm that Minho thinks he’ll probably never see. He’s not sure how he knows, but it’s _there_ in the way their eyes lock over a shared pot of jjapaguri, or in the way Minho’s heart stutters into his mouth when Jisung looks at him _just so_ , with his hair falling into his eyes and oversized clothing hanging off his shoulders.

But Minho doesn’t _know_ Han Jisung—the ins and outs of him, what makes him tick, what he scrawls in the margins of that tattered notebook he carries everywhere he goes. But he wonders, he wonders until his head aches, because something about Jisung has found its way underneath his skin and made a home there.

◈

He sighs and nudges open the apartment door with his shoulder. It’s nearly 8 pm, and after two hours of overtime and another hour on the bus, he’s teetering somewhere between anger and fatigue. The apartment is dark, he assumes no one’s home, but then he trips over Jisung’s shoes piled haphazardly in the entryway and he curses under his breath. It isn’t like Jisung to be in bed this early, Minho thinks, and curiosity itches at the back of his neck.

_It’s not your business, Lee Minho. You barely know the kid._

So he kicks the shoes to the side and drops his bag onto a kitchen chair. He’s too tired to eat, too tired to think, too tired to nag Jisung for the empty takeout containers he left next to the sink, so he frowns and stumbles to his room in the dark.

He passes Jisung’s door on the way, pulled tightly closed, but he can still see a sliver of yellow lamplight creeping across the hardwood from underneath. It stops him in his tracks—right there in the middle of the hallway—because it’s a _first._ He knows Jisung holes up in his room from time to time, goes to bed when the sun rises, sneaks into the kitchen when he thinks Minho’s asleep—but this is the first time Minho’s _seen_ him do it, and that itching curiosity returns full-force.

That’s when he hears it—the agitated fluttering of notebook pages and Jisung muttering under his breath. There’s a melody, cottony and muffled like it’s spilling from a pair of headphones, and Minho feels himself leaning forward.

_He makes music,_ Hyunjin had said.

Minho’s never heard any of it, and it’s suddenly all he can think about. So he stays there, rooted to the floor in his wrinkled button-down and mismatched socks, until Jisung finally opens his mouth.

He’s not sure what he expected—anger? Frustration? A teetering, jumbled mix of beats stacked atop one another like toy blocks to reflect the utter _enigma_ that was their creator?—but what he hears rips any other thought from his brain.

The melody is soft, the lyrics even softer, and there’s an ache to it that climbs into Minho’s chest. It’s raw at the edges—fraying, falling apart—and he takes a step back. He suddenly feels like an intruder in his own house, like he’s seen something he shouldn’t have, and he can’t bring himself to continue down the hallway to his own room. He heads back to the living room and perches on the edge of a couch cushion instead.

He wakes up three hours later to the sound of water splashing in the sink. There’s a dull ache rooted behind his eyes, and all the muscles in his neck have twisted into knots. He groans and brings his hands to his face.

“Rough day at work, I’m guessing.”

Minho startles at the sound of Jisung’s voice and feels his heart climb into his throat. He swallows and manages to make a noncommittal noise.

The water stops, and Jisung steps out into the living room. His dark hair is a tangled mess, and he’s wearing nothing but a gigantic hoodie over a pair of boxers. “Sucks,” he says after a long while. “Work, I mean.”

“Uh.” Minho clears his throat. “Yeah. Yeah.”

They lapse into a silence thick like salty summer air. Jisung’s fingers tap out a rhythm against his own thigh. Minho can see the blue pen ink smudged along the sides of his hands. God, his head hurts.

“Your music—” It slips out before he thinks, a whisper in the darkness between them.

Jisung looks up. “Huh?”

Minho wets his lips and tries again. “Your music.” It’s louder this time, but only barely. “Could I…hear it sometime? If you’re… If you’re comfortable with that, I mean—”

Jisung squints, and he tilts his head like Minho is something he’s never really seen before. “Why?”

“Just…” Regret sits heavy on his tongue now, and Minho shifts in his seat. He wishes he hadn’t said it, wishes he could reach out and snatch the words back— “I guess I just thought that maybe, you know, since we’re friends—”

“We’re roommates.”

He’s right, and Minho wonders why that bothers him. They don’t know each other, not really, and the air is quickly becoming too awkward to breathe. “Right.”

The next bout of silence is more suffocating than the first. Minho picks at a loose thread on his sleeve and resists the urge to leave the room. He hears Jisung draw in a breath. “You know, I don’t get you.”

Minho blinks. “What?”

“I don’t get you,” Jisung repeats. “You make no sense.”

“What does that—”

“I see you staring.” Jisung raises a brow. “Every day, staring like I’m some puzzle you can’t figure out. But then you just go to work and come home and go to sleep and you never _ask._ And now, what, you want to be friends? After five months?”

Minho isn’t sure what to say to that, so he decides to say nothing at all.

“See, that’s what I mean.” Jisung’s voice is a shade softer. “Why don’t you ever just say how you feel?”

Minho picks at the loose thread until it unravels. “I don’t know how I feel.”

Jisung lets out a breath through his nose, and Minho wonders if he’s laughing at him. “That in and of itself is a feeling.” He tugs hard on the sleeves of his hoodie before heading back to his room, and the door is already closed behind him before Minho can ask what he means.

◈

Nothing changes the next day, or the next or the next, and something about it feels like phantom fingers down Minho’s spine. They eat dinner together like always, Jisung complains about work and leaves dirty dishes on the counter like always, but there’s _something—_ It’s the way blue ink stains the palms of Jisung’s hands and the way shadows pool underneath his eyes. It’s the way Minho is late for work four days in a row because he stays up late with bated breath just to hear Jisung’s soft voice filter through the bedroom wall. It’s the way Jisung stares, too, through eyes heavy with fatigue, and Minho wonders if he ever really sleeps at all.

It’s the way Jisung slowly becomes a little less hurricane, and a little more human.

“Why do you make music?” It slips out one night as Minho watches him push cold takeout around his plate with a plastic fork.

Jisung pauses. “Does it matter?”

“No,” Minho says softly. “Yes. Maybe? I’m just…trying to understand you.”

Jisung snorts. “We don’t understand each other. That’s kind of how this works.”

“That’s how you want this to work?”

They lock eyes then, and there’s something so heavy in it that Minho wants to shrink back. “Not really,” Jisung says with a frown. “But it’s easier.”

“Easier is better?” Minho doesn’t know why he says it, but the way Jisung’s gaze rakes over his face makes it worth it.

“Usually.” Jisung stands and moves to dump his plate in the sink—food and all—and Minho suddenly feels like he’s about to lose something.

“I used to dance,” he whispers.

Jisung freezes. There’s the longest stretch of silence Minho has ever heard in his life. “Used to?”

“In middle school, high school, college—most of my life, actually.” He feels stupid for telling him this over cheap takeout, but there’s a desperation clawing at his throat and he doesn’t know where it’s coming from.

Jisung sets his plate on the counter but doesn’t look at him. “Why’d you quit?”

Minho doesn’t want to answer that—he can’t, not without a monstrous ache sitting on his chest—so he shrugs instead.

Jisung falls back into his chair and rests his chin in the palm of a hand. When he finally looks at Minho again, his eyes are the tiniest bit softer. “You wanna know why I make music?”

Minho nods.

“The same reason you used to dance.”

He blinks. “You don’t know why I used to dance.”

Jisung’s lips quirk upward in the saddest smile Minho’s ever seen. “Yeah, I do.”

◈

The week passes in a hazy blur.

Minho is late for work every day, and his manager pulls him aside to give him a stern talking-to in the claustrophobic confines of his dingy office.

Minho wonders, not for the first time, how he’s supposed to feel. He’s exhausted in more than just the physical sense, and he thinks about calling Chan for the first time in months. He knows he’ll pick up the phone—he always does—but then Minho thinks of the pity in his voice and decides against it.

When he shoulders open the door to the apartment, he’s surprised to see Jisung sitting on the living room floor. He’s got his tattered notebook balanced across his knees, with a blue pen held fast between his teeth. He glances up when he hears the door fall shut.

There’s something about Jisung like this, hunched in front of the coffee table with tousled hair and a graphic tee slipping down one shoulder, that makes Minho’s chest feel tight. He clears his throat and looks away.

“Dinner’s in the kitchen,” Jisung says after an eternity.

It’s _japchae_ with extra egg, though Minho doesn’t remember ever telling Jisung he likes it that way, and he looks back into the living room. “I didn’t know you could cook.”

Jisung only shrugs and scribbles something in the margins of his notebook.

Minho piles some into a bowl and heads for the couch. There are no dishes on the table, no dirty chopsticks on the counter or in the sink, and he frowns. “Are you not having any?”

A pause. “I don’t like _japchae.”_

Minho blinks. “You made it, though.”

“Yeah.” Jisung shifts and tugs at the hem of his shirt. “You like it, don’t you? With the extra egg or whatever.”

“I…” Minho stares into his bowl, and an emotion he doesn’t dare name climbs up his throat. “Yeah. Yeah, thanks.”

Jisung nods and continues to write. Minho watches for a long time as ink smears along the sides of his hands. He can feel the edges of the bowl cooling to room temperature.

“I don’t remember telling you I like _japchae_ with extra egg.”

Jisung’s pen stills. “You did. When I first moved in.”

“Why would you remember that?”

“I remember a lot of things about you,” Jisung says, and it’s matter-of-fact in a way that makes Minho’s stomach flip over. They had never really spoken much—just the occasional casual conversation over dinner—and he can barely recall any of it. And that’s where they differ, he supposes. He thinks maybe Jisung will figure him out, after all, while he’s left with puzzle pieces that don’t match up.

He clears his throat. “What are you writing?”

He sees one corner of Jisung’s mouth quirk upward. “Nothing.”

And Minho thinks he can’t stand for it anymore—the not knowing—because it itches at the back of his mind all day and he’ll surely go insane while Jisung picks him apart like it’s easy. “I heard you, you know.” He regrets saying it already. “Through your door. A few nights ago.”

Jisung’s pen scratches to a halt against the paper. He’s quiet for a long while. “And?”

“And what?”

“What did you think?”

Minho swallows and his ears start to burn. “Does it matter?”

“I wouldn’t have asked if it didn’t.”

He isn’t sure what to say. The bowl in his hands has long since gone cold. “It’s…not what I expected from you.” It’s the truth, but it feels forbidden, wedging itself into that space between them that he’s too afraid to label.

“You know me well enough to expect something from me?”

Minho flinches because it’s the question he was afraid of. “Probably not, but that didn’t stop me from expecting.”

Jisung hums. It sounds louder than it should. “What did you expect, then?”

“Anger?” There’s a shakiness to it that he hates. “Some sort of… I don’t know, I don’t know how to explain it. Something more…forceful.”

“Why?”

It’s frustrating now, this machine-gun barrage of questions, because he feels like he’s getting nowhere. He lets out a breath through his nose. “Because you’re just _like that._ You’re… loud and, God, I don’t know. You’re a _force._ All of you. Since you moved in. But now you’re…”

Jisung turns to face him then, and it’s the first time they’ve made eye contact since Minho sat down. There’s a curiosity burning just beneath the surface. His hair is falling into his eyes.

“Softer,” Minho finally breathes.

Jisung doesn’t say anything. His eyes rake over Minho’s face, long, slow, drawn-out.

He shrinks back under the scrutiny. “What?”

“You think you’re finally figuring me out?” It’s barely above a whisper.

“I hope so.” He hears Jisung’s breath hitch, and it fills him with an odd satisfaction.

“And if you regret it?”

Minho can’t think of what to say to that, so he says nothing at all.

◈

Minho doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to properly describe the next day, the next week, the next month. It’s watching a hurricane unwind into the shape of a human; it’s watching something tightly sewn start to fray at the edges; it’s a thousand metaphors packed into his head all at the same time because—ever so slowly—he figures Jisung out.

They watch movies on the couch, and Jisung boasts about his favorite horror films only to flinch and squeeze his eyes shut when Minho clicks on them.

They order takeout and end up spending 100,000 won on sushi alone, and he watches as Jisung picks out the ones he doesn’t like and pushes them onto Minho’s plate.

He tells Jisung to stop leaving dirty dishes on the counter, and Jisung merely sticks his tongue out and hunches back over his notebook.

He finds Jisung asleep with his cheek pressed against the coffee table, blue ink smudged along his fingers, and he doesn’t have the heart to wake him up so he drapes a blanket over his shoulders and turns off the light.

They drink together for the first time, and he laughs when Jisung gets tipsy after two shots. He’s gone after four, clinging to the front of Minho’s shirt and slurring nonsense, and something fond roots itself in Minho’s chest.

“Pretty,” Jisung murmurs. He’s blinking up at Minho with sleepy eyes. “You’re pretty, you know.”

The fondness twists almost painfully. “And you’re drunk.”

“’M not,” he mutters, but then he tips forward and throws up all over Minho’s socks.

Minho carries him to bed after that—pulls a blanket to his chin, flicks off the light—and tries to uproot the fondness.

◈

It’s nearing the end of summer, and Minho can’t deny that he’s glad for it. The apartment is always a little too hot, the salty tang of the sea always a little too strong. He yearns for sweaters and a chilly breeze through crackling leaves.

“Summer’s almost over,” Jisung says softly one night from his spot on the living room floor.

Minho hums in acknowledgment.

Jisung shifts. “I was thinking about going to the beach tonight.”

“Try not to drown,” Minho deadpans.

Jisung rolls his eyes, lets his notebook fall shut, hoists himself onto the couch next to him. “I was obviously saying that as an invitation.”

Minho makes a face. “I don’t really like the ocean.”

“Come on, just one time.” It’s very nearly a pout, and Minho wants to reach over and ruffle his hair. He doesn’t.

“Fine. One time.”

So when the sun sets, he locks the door behind them and shoves his hands into his pockets. “So is this like, a last hurrah or something?”

Jisung falls into step beside him. When he smiles Minho looks away. “Yeah, it’s symbolic, I guess. Shouldn’t we give summer a proper sendoff?”

“It’s a season, it’s not like it knows.”

Jisung shoves him hard enough to make him stumble. “You’re a fucking buzzkill.”

Minho knows he’s right, so he keeps his mouth shut as they meander through Gangneung’s winding streets.

It’s only a twenty-minute walk, and the silence is comfortable. He watches as Jisung jumps onto the curb separating sidewalk from sand. Minho hunches his shoulders against the breeze. “Not much to do here, you know.”

Jisung holds out his hand. “Isn’t this enough?”

Minho blinks—once, twice—before taking it. He steps up on the curb beside him. Jisung doesn’t let his hand go.

He’s not sure how to feel. A few stars skirt the light pollution, but not enough to be noteworthy. The waves are rough but not dangerous. He can see craggy outcrops of rock hulking dark against the sea spray. He looks over at Jisung, at his windswept hair and oversized Nirvana tee-shirt, at the way his eyes squint against the wind and his mouth turns down at the corners.

“This is your last hurrah?” Minho can’t help but smile, just a little bit.

Jisung’s fingers tighten in his own. “Yeah.”

Minho’s breath catches somewhere between his lungs and his mouth.

Jisung moves to sit down on the curb, tugging Minho with him until he follows suit. It’s quiet again, that easy sort of silence, and Jisung uses the toe of his shoe to shift pebbles around in the sand. Minho hears him take a breath.

“You ever think there’s…more than this?”

It’s a sudden question that doesn’t make much sense. “More than what?”

Jisung shrugs. _“This._ You know? There’s something _else—_ it can’t just be working and sleeping and dying, can it? It’s not enough.”

Minho opens his mouth but any sort of reply dies on his tongue.

“It’s why I write, you know. It’s why you used to dance, isn’t it?”

Minho can only stare, but Jisung’s eyes are fixed on the water. “I…”

“It’s that _something—_ people like us, we can’t live without it. That _other,_ that nameless _thing_ you want to trap in your hands and carry with you. How can I let it go when it’s all I fucking have?”

And it starts to make sense in a senseless way. Why Jisung writes like he needs it to live; why he’s constantly staring at Minho with blue-tinged fingertips and an ache in his eyes. Minho knew it once, when he danced with a hunger that clawed through every limb with razor-sharp fingers. He remembers giving it up for reality, for stability, for his soulless job and tiny apartment. He remembers it draining through the soles of his shoes and into the floor.

“I understand,” he whispers.

They don’t need to say anything else.

They head back up the street after a long while—easy silence, Jisung’s hand in his—and the apartment is pitch-dark when Minho pushes open the door. It’s humid, stuffy, and he hears Jisung let out a shuddery breath.

“Have I finally figured you out?”

Minho’s hand freezes where it was reaching for the light switch. His fingers curl inward. “I don’t know. Have you?” His eyes are adjusting to the dark now, and he sees Jisung staring at him with curious eyes, sees him take a step closer.

“I hope so.” He’s so close now, so close that Minho can smell the nighttime and salt on his skin. He’s not sure where this is going—not sure where he wants this to go—because there’s still so much about Jisung that doesn’t make complete sense.

“If I kissed you right now,” Jisung whispers, and _oh, okay, it does make sense,_ “what would you do?”

“Kiss you back,” Minho breathes because he realizes it’s the truth. He wants to kiss him, wants to be that _something_ that stills the pen in his hand, if only for a day.

So he does. When Jisung kisses him soft and slow right there in the pitch-black entryway, he kisses back with a desperation he didn’t know he had. He tastes like end-of-summer breezes and ocean spray, and he backs Minho against the wall easily enough to draw a gasp from his mouth.

It’s unbelievably gentle, the way Jisung threads his fingers through his hair, and Minho thinks his knees might give out. Jisung kisses like it’s his last day alive, like he wants nothing more than for Minho to lose sleep over the way he tastes, the way he pulls back for air just to drag his teeth against his lip. And maybe Minho wants Jisung to lose sleep over him, too, so he slips his hands underneath his tee-shirt and pulls their bodies flush. Jisung whimpers, breathy and high, as he tightens his grip on Minho’s hair.

“If I took this off,” Minho gasps, sliding his hands down to tug at the hem of Jisung’s shirt, “what would you do?”

“I’d let you,” Jisung murmurs. His lips move to Minho’s jawline, slow and a little less steady than before. “God, I’d let you do more than that.”

_Oh._

The shirt is on the floor between one breath and the next, and Minho revels in the way Jisung shudders under his hands. His waist is impossibly delicate—a fact Minho would have never known from the oversized clothes always hanging from his shoulders—and he digs his nails in just enough to hear Jisung gasp against his neck.

“I feel like I could break you.”

He feels Jisung smile, feels him catch his skin between his teeth in a way that’s sure to bruise. “I’d like to see you try.”

But Minho won’t, he never could, so he trails his fingers up his spine slow and gentle. He feels it when Jisung goes boneless, feels it when his mouth stops moving and he breathes shallow against his neck. They stand like that for a tiny stretch of infinity.

“Are we…?” Jisung finally breathes. It’s the quietest Minho has ever heard him.

He swallows. “I mean… I don’t—”

“Just say how you feel, Minho, for once in your life.” He unhooks his fingers from Minho’s hair and slides them down to his waist instead. He’s untucking Minho’s shirt, inch by inch, until he’s able to snake his hands underneath. “You either want this or you don’t.”

“I want it.” It tumbles from Minho’s tongue of its own volition. “I want you. So, so bad—”

That’s all it takes for Jisung to tug the shirt over his head. He pulls back to stare at him, and Minho takes note of his tangled hair and parted lips. “Guess I’ve got you figured out, after all.” He leans forward to kiss him again with a hungry edge that leaves him breathless. He’s licking into his mouth, digging his fingernails into his spine, drawing sounds from him that he didn’t know he could make.

Minho grabs at his shoulders, pushes him back until he’s stumbling against the kitchen counter. Jisung sucks in a startled breath against his mouth. “Rough,” he breathes.

Minho trails his fingers over each and every notch of his spine. “Sorry.”

“No.” Jisung’s hands are at his waistband now, fiddling with the button on his jeans. “Rough is good.”

Minho feels the air slowly draining from the room. “Is that how you—”

But he’s tugging at Minho’s jeans now, sliding them to the floor, grabbing at his hips hard enough to leave marks—“Please.” It’s only one word, barely-there, but it sends a shock skittering down to Minho’s toes. He wonders how Jisung would sound on the verge of falling apart, begging breathy and high and wanting.

He moves to mouth along Jisung’s jawline. “Say that again.”

He whimpers and tips his head back. “Minho, please.”

“Again.” He nips at Jisung’s neck, his earlobe, his collarbones until the smallest moan slips past his teeth.

“Fuck,” he hisses. _“Please.”_

From there it’s easy.

It’s so easy to pull Jisung to the couch and into his lap, to thread his fingers through his belt loops and lave his tongue along the bruises blooming across his skin. It’s easy when Jisung grinds against him—desperate—and begs for Minho to touch him, _please, please—_

So Minho slips his jeans to the floor, pulls him closer, touches him hard and fast because _rough is good._

“God,” Jisung chokes out. He rocks against Minho’s hand like it’s the last thing he’ll ever do. “God, fuck, I knew you’d be good at this—”

Heat flares down Minho’s spine. “H-Have you”—the words tumble over themselves in his mouth—“Have you thought about this before?”

Jisung pulls back to look at him, and _God,_ the want in his eyes makes Minho’s bones dissolve. “A few times,” he gasps. His eyes flutter shut, his head tilts back, his lips part on a moan that Minho can feel to the tips of his toes. “Want you so bad, please—”

Minho pushes him hard off his lap and presses him into the couch cushions. He hovers above him, one hand digging into the fabric while the other strokes him faster, rougher, until Jisung is arching against him with sharp whines falling from his pretty mouth. He’s still begging, gasping and breathy, but this time it’s _more_ and _harder_ and Minho tries not to think about how much sleep he’ll lose replaying it in his head. Jisung’s shaking fingers scrabble for the waistband of Minho’s boxers and pull them down to his knees. Minho’s mind goes fuzzy at the implication. He can feel all of his nerve endings singing with a white-hot electricity.

“D-Do you have—”

“Where else would it be, God, just don’t—Don’t stop touching me, please, God—”

So they stumble to Jisung’s room, an uncoordinated mess of limbs, lips, teeth, _want,_ until they’re collapsing onto his rumpled comforter.

And Minho thinks it’s so easy, easy, _easy—_ the way Jisung opens up for him, pliant underneath his hands; the way Jisung’s fingers trail fire down the backs of his thighs; the way Minho pushes into him hard enough to see tears gather in his eyes—

He loses himself fast, and he thinks that all he’s ever known is Jisung’s skin, his mouth, his voice, his breath. He wonders if maybe Jisung is that _something,_ that feeling he wants to trap in his fingers and carry with him wherever he goes. Because surely he’ll never forget the choked syllables of his name on Jisung’s tongue, or the way he falls apart with his fingers tight in Minho’s hair. Surely there’s more than working, sleeping, dying, because _this—_ Minho thinks he’d live a monotonous life a hundred times over for this. And he wonders if maybe Jisung would, too, because the way he urges Minho on is full of that _something._ It’s the way his lips ghost over Minho’s ear when he whispers, “Ah, good, so good, yes” and the way he shudders down to his toes when Minho finally _finally—_

It’s a long time coming down, his breath shallow against Jisung’s neck, and neither of them move. Jisung’s fingers tap a rhythm down Minho’s spine. Minho wonders if he’ll ever write music about him. He swallows. “Hey, Sung?”

Jisung hums.

“Would you ever write about me?”

It’s quiet for a long while. “I don’t need to.” It comes out on the softest sigh.

Minho presses his lips to the space where Jisung’s neck and shoulder meet. “Why not?”

“Because this is already enough.”

Minho understands, and they don’t need to say anything else.

**Author's Note:**

> me, waxing poetic about minsung? very on brand, tbh 
> 
> [twt](https://twitter.com/excelgesis)


End file.
